"Well, anyway, Burke, you've never found any one else!" The Hallelujah Chorus did almost sing through the doctor's voice this time. "No, I've been spared that, thank Heaven. There was one--a Mrs. Carrolton." "Yes, I met her--at that reception, you know," said the doctor, answering the unspoken question. "Oh, yes, I remember. Well, I did come near--but I pulled myself up in time. I knew, in my heart, she wasn't the kind of woman-- Then, too, there was Helen. It was only that I was feeling particularly reckless that fall. Besides, I know now that I've cared for Helen--the real Helen--all the time. And there _is_ a real Helen, I believe, underneath it all. As I look back at them--all those years--I know that during every single one of them I've been trying to get away from myself. If it hadn't been for dad--and that's the one joy I have: that I was able to be with dad. They weren't quite lost--those years, for they brought him joy." "No, they've not been lost, Burke," said the doctor, with quiet emphasis. Burke laughed a little grimly. "Oh, I know what you mean, of course. I've been 'tried as by fire'--eh? Well, I dare say I have--and I've been found woefully wanting. But enough of this!" he broke off abruptly, springing to his feet. "You don't happen to know of a young woman who has the skill of experience, the wisdom of age, the adaptability of youth, and the patience of Job all in one, do you?" he demanded. The doctor turned with startled eyes. "Why, Burke, after all this, you don't mean--" "No, it's not a wife I'm looking for," interposed Burke, with a whimsical shrug. "It's a--a stenographer or private secretary, only she must be much more than the ordinary kind. I want to catalogue all this truck father and I have accumulated. She must know French and German--a little Greek and Hebrew wouldn't be amiss. And I want one that would be interested in this sort of thing--one who will realize she isn't handling--er--potatoes, say. My eyes are going back on me, too, and I shall want her to read to me; so I must like her voice. I don't want anything, you see," he smiled grimly. "I should say not," laughed the doctor, rising. "But before you can give me any more necessary qualifications, I guess I'd better be going to bed." "I don't wonder, after the harangue I've given you. But--you don't know of such a person, do you?" "I don't." "No, I suppose not--nor anybody else," finished Burke Denby, a profound gloom that had become habitual settling over his face. "If I do I'll send her to you," nodded the doctor, halfway through the door. The doctor was in a hurry to get up to his room--he had a letter to write. "Thanks," said Burke Denby, still dryly, as he waved his hand in good-night. "Stenographer, indeed!" sang the doctor under his breath, bounding up the stairs like a boy. "Wait till he sees what I am going to get him!" he finished, striding down the hall and into his own room.